


the birdwatcher & his lover.

by oceandesertworld



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Canon Rewrite, Childhood Friends, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Movie: IT (2017), Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Slow Build, Unrequited Crush, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21713746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceandesertworld/pseuds/oceandesertworld
Summary: it's the summer of '89, and you discover new things about yourself— some good, and some you wish you could swallow and never see again. dealing with the newfound confusion of sexuality, you must learn the ins and outs of friendship and what it means to grow up.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh/Reader, Stanley Uris/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. chapter one.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi hi! this is my first it fic on ao3 and honestly i'm a bit anxious about this bc i haven't written in ages lmfao. this is a series. pls don't hesitate to send comments or kudos! nothing is set entirely into stone yet. please note! the characters are fifteen in this, and pennywise doesn't attack derry at all; so georgie is alive and well and chasing paper boats in the rain. richie & reader are both bisexual, ben & bev fall in love as kids. reader and bill are vv close but platonically.

the first time you meet stanley uris, he is perched on a oak bench planted in the middle of derry park, his bruised knees pressed together in order to keep his journal steady. his chin is pointed to the heavens, eyes searching the clouds, a curious glow in them; cheeks dusted a light pink, he was angelic, the sun's rays a dull comparison to the golden glow of his messy curls. the boy had a nervous tick of tapping his pencil against the yellowed paper in his lap, followed by the curve of his brow when he noticed a bird flutter overheard.

you, at age eleven, were fascinated by him, and lacked a filter to save you from your mouth. it's almost as if the hinge of your jaw had lost a screw, and you feared if it hung open too long a fly might seek entrance there. of course, it would have been entirely avoidable if you hadn't sat your butt right next to him, and stuck your nose right where it didn't belong: in his journal.

"your handwriting is pretty, but your drawings can use some serious work. is that supposed to be a bird? it looks like it's having a heart attack," you had said, tilting your head, "the wings are too jagged and the legs too... sticky, you know? not like sticky like honey, but sticky like... you know, sticks? are you mute or something?"

your blank stare forces stanley's hand to shoot to the back of his neck as he tries to find the words to attend to all of your commentaries. his mouth opens and closes a few times before you roll your eyes dramatically, slumping into the back of the bench. stanley clears his throat, eyes falling to the ground. a silence ensues, and you glance from his crestfallen expression to the drawings.

"and, uh, his eyes are buggy; they look like fat marbles. they're taking up his whole face."

stan releases a breathy laugh, and he raises an eyebrow at the graphite drawing in front of him. "they do, don't they?" 

you mirror his laugh, and nod solemnly. "there's no saving them," you say, and decide to tell him your name, outstretching your hand proudly.

"stanley," the boy replies, meeting your grip and giving it a good shake. "uh, you know a lot about drawing. could you fix him?"

you hum, taking the journal from his lap and dropping it in your own. you tilt your head at the sketch, putting your chin in your hand. "it's going to be a tough job, but i think he'll survive. scalpel, sir?"

he hands you the yellow pencil, sharpened down half its original length.

"anastesia? or uh," you inquire, not aware of how to spell or pronounce the word, "the stuff that doctors give people during surgery."

"anesthesia," stanley corrects, pulling a pink eraser from his pocket and giving it away.

"yeah, that," you bring the eraser down and the bird lines are soon gone, but the remnants of what was stays behind on the paper. "your lines are really hard. you've prolly got heavy hand, you know. but don't worry, i do too."

the next few minutes are in comfortable silence, save for your absent-minded humming. stanley leans over your shoulder, but not to the point of invading personal space, studying each pencil stroke gracing the journal. he makes a comment about the structure of the real-life bird, and you nod your head in agreement. the two of you synchronize nearly perfectly — you sketch what he tells you to. you aren't very observant to the outside world, but you focus on details in your drawings. stanley will mention that the creature has a stray mark on its beak, and you pencil it in without the graphite being too dramatic, which stanley is quick to do in his work.

after an hour of chatting and working, you are sitting on the back of the bench, feet placed comfortably on the seat. you are talking on and on about a story that happened during your english class, and you don't refrain a single detail. stanley listens intently, body slouched forward over his journal as he writes physical descriptions of the bird next to the drawing. he checks the time on his watch and nearly jumps out of his seat. he swivels around, eyes blown wide, but you don't seem to notice as your arms wave about, mimicking a girl in your class. stanley barks your name, which sounds sweet on his tongue, he realizes. when you focus on him curiously, he looks guilty.

"i have to go. i was supposed to go to my friend's house so we could go to the quarry together. uh, unless you want to.. go?" 

you grin, hopping onto the soil beside him. "for sure!" you hook your arm in his, and skip forward a few steps.

"wrong way," he says sheepishly.

you turn around, now exceedingly confident. "onward, steed!" 

the next few years, up until freshman year, you are best friends with stanley uris and his gang of friends; bill denbrough, richie tozier, and eddie kaspbrak. bill was the kindest of all of them, a sensitive boy with a heart of gold. his love for art made him an easy companion, and you grew very close the summer of 7th grade, spending many hours a week at his house simply talking and making art. his little brother is like your favorite person, the little squirt constantly bugging bill about when he'll see you again, and telling bill he likes you better because you'll play with him.

eddie is a mother hen to you, warning you about the dangers you put yourself in on a daily basis. you are more reckless than the other boys, so it's common to see eddie turn an ugly shade of purple when he witnesses you do something exceedingly ignorant. with your asthma, he can relate to you, but you personally believe the inhalers you have are pointless and there's no need to rely on them, but eddie disagrees. when he takes a puff from his emergency inhaler, which is more of a daily one, he tends to shove one in your mouth too for simple sake of anxiety. you've found that he calms down when you play with his hair or give his scalp a light scratch, his voice lost in the serenity of it all. 

ah, richie tozier; you two are scarily similar, and everyone is aware of it. he's, of course, referred to as "trashmouth", and you're known as "loudmouth", as richie has a tendency to speak inappropriate things, and you just keep speaking and can't properly whisper to save your life. a major difference between the two of you is your vulnerability, naiveness, and positive charisma. his talkativeness is characterized by sarcasm and the "class clown" stereotype, while yours relies more on really just being a chatterbox, whose thoughts spill out at rapid speeds without being filtered by your brain. fortunately, it's easier to make friends this way, and you tend to be the ice-breaker of your friends. richie, personally, admires this about you and thinks of you as an "innocent little ball of sunshine", and likes to put his arm on your head to show his dominance. 

your relationship with stanley uris is a bit complicated; of course, at first, it was unproblematic being friends with him, as you were easy opposites. you spoke into the space that he was too quiet to fill, and it was comfortable for the both of you; you got to speak your mind without interruption, and stanley was able to have company that didn't force him to interact gregariously. however, as you grew with time, he found your carelessness to be irritating, as he hated feeling he had to be anxious all of the time; stanley enjoys turning his alarm off, and running on low function, and he thinks it is hard to do that when you're jumping off cliffs, climbing on slippery rocks with your eyes covered, and provoking bullies three years older than you. he finds you irrational and childlike, which is difficult for him to grasp as an inherently strategic and analytical person. you are a glass half full, and he is glass half empty. he prefers to consider the consequences, and you have a tendency to wait to find them out after you commit the deed. he has his future planned, and you want to live in the moment; you enjoy surprises, new opportunities, as there is something entirely boring about being sure what you plan to do each day. sometimes, you believe stanley wakes early, dresses in the outfit he put aside the night before, and takes a seat to write down a schedule. you shiver at the thought. unfortunately, the disagreements put tension on your friendship, as hanging out periodically ends with an argument, and one of you stomping out to rant to one of the others. you sincerely care for each other, but also find each other extremely irritating when the situation calls for it; which is becoming increasingly habitual as you grow taller with age. 

you also find him to be beautiful. 

you're fifteen when you properly meet ben hanscom, beverly marsh, and mike hanlon. it's also the first time you felt something strike deep in your gut for that particular redheaded girl, and the way her newly chopped locks curled at the ends. she had tucked your hair behind your ear as you wrestled with the button on your overall shorts, and took your hands in hers, pushing them aside so she could slip the button through the hole properly. she was so graceful, elegant even, in the way she held herself. that day, you labeled the twist of your insides as insecurity, nothing else. 

it was a mix of many things, you realized a long time after. insecurity, deep-rooted sexual confusion, and jealousy.

beverly is the first to jump off the cliff and into the lake below. after aiding you in your clothing disaster, she slips her creamy overdress from her shoulders, and gives her arms a good shake. she departs with a glance back at you, the sun beating down on her hair like fiery red flames, and her icy eyes contrasting its intensity. suddenly, you feel so small; so plain. before she could see your lip quiver, she was in the air, high like an angel, before falling towards the murky waters. 

the stars in bill and ben's eyes, and the admiration in the rest of theirs, erupt a cacophony for you, striking your heart like a harsh note: these aren't your boys anymore.

bill jumps next, and then the others, eddie last. the splash sends spikes in your spine, but it's a warm hand on your shoulder that kick-starts your body. sandy curls appear in front of your face, tilting to reveal the kind eyes of stanley uris. his mouth is shaped in a firm line, a bit disappointed by your lack of enthusiasm. he seems to be at war with himself. he stays silent for a moment, eyes searching the sky for the right words.

"i want to go last," he finally breathes, seemingly triumphed in his verbiage, "i don't want them to see me cross my fingers behind my back before i go."

you laugh softly, relieved you are grateful knowing he wasn't going to pry in your hesitation or your brief self-consciousness. even when the two of you bicker, you hold high respect for stan; he's a boy of few words. he isn't shy, and certainly isn't bashful; he simply chooses to speak sparingly, believing that the chattiest voices aren't always loudest. he doesn't word vomit to fill the silence; that is how you know his words are meticulously chosen, like pieces to a greater puzzle. 

stanley's thin frame makes no unnecessary movements, but rather awaits yours. his hand has long since abandoned your shoulder and rather is cuffing his other calmly in front of his hips. the lack of speech isn't menacing or awkward, but instead a bit comforting; it gives you adequate time to finish undressing, tossing aside your socks and shoes. you pull the loose scrunchie from your hair, and give yourself a silent nod in reassurance.

"promise not to tell?" stan says quietly when he's sure you're more stable, curious eyes searching for yours.

"pinky promise," you insist, holding up the smallest finger on your right hand. when his wraps around yours, you toss him a childlike grin. "i never break them."

and then you're gone, cascading down towards the green waters, each wave crystalizing in your descent.

"i know," stanley whispers to himself. little do you know, he has the same epiphany you had just seconds ago, aweing after beverly. he crosses his fingers behind his back and steps off the cliff's edge. 

air reaches your lungs when you pull your head above the surface, and you gather your sopping hair from your skin, laying it against your neck. you face the sky, and stan's dive is a flash of gold: like a bird, graceful in it's dip, his curls like its wings.

you find yourself wanting to ask him what it's like to fly. 

* * *

on a boiling day in the middle of july, you and the others spend a day in the quarry again but instead have a picnic by the rocks rather than racing back into town for a snack at eddie's house. it was mike's idea; he hadn't told anyone until he showed up early that day, sweaty and beaming with a quaint basket and blanket tucked under his arm. you felt a bit guilty, honestly— you wish he would've told you so you all could pitch in. 

he seemed ecstatic, though, setting it up, so you couldn't bring yourself to mention that.

beverly says she wants to sunbathe with you, so you agree with hot cheeks and position yourself awkwardly next to her, posture straight with your knees tucked under your arms. your stiffness goes unnoticed by her, thankfully, so you're able to admire her form in peace as she stretches her limbs out with a soft sigh. compared to her, you feel unbearably rigged, unbearably _not feminine_. a thought crosses your mind that her own feminity outshines yours so much that the boys must think of you as one of them, minus the third leg, and with twin petals blossoming on your chest.

the boys are curled around their usual spots, the multiple boulders a few feet from your seated position, chatting carelessly. mike is discluded, lost in preparing the perfect picnic for you all. perhaps if you had noticed the simplicity of it all, you wouldn't have blurted out something ignorant to force a tension in the summer air.

_"do you guys think i'm pretty?"_

the conversation drops briefly, takes a soft roar, and then entirely ceases as seven pairs of eyes draw to you, including mike and beverly. the red-haired girl has a smirk on her lips, tilting her head ever so slightly as if to test your patience and purpose. bill clears his throat gently.

"u-um, well, yeah of c-course.. w-why wouldn't w-we?" 

you shrug nonchalantly, and the others eyeball each other, pleading for another to say something else. eddie and ben slyly play rock paper scissors for a sacrifice.

richie whistles lowly. "this is gonna be _good."_

your face's temperature soon begins to rival the sun as your breath hitches in your throat, attention turned directly on beverly, as though her presence might calm your nerves. it doesn't. your lower lip is caught between your teeth, as you grow progressively more embarrassed of yourself the longer the others stare.

beverly smiles gently, her intensely blue eyes never straying from yours."i think you're the prettiest girl in the world."

you sputter suddenly adjusting your aviators, and spill out something along the lines of "i have to go take a piss", and skitter off in the direction of the woods. you curse yourself the entire way.

richie laughs breaking the tension. he pats stanley's bare back roughly as the lanky boy stares at the trees you disappeared behind."and the hits _just keep on coming."_

"beep beep, richie," eddie scolds, and richie winks at him, suggestively nodding towards him. eddie rolls his eyes and his gaze drops to his feet.

"sandwiches, anyone?" mike whimpers, a lopsided grin as he holds up a loaf of bread. stanley gently pushes past him and disappears into the brush.

"well, i, for one, would like _three_ ," richie replies, slapping his thighs as he stands.

eddie mumbles a word or two about richie being "as selfish as ever", and makes his way to mike also.

beverly is a bit quiet and bill chooses to sit beside her; his hands fall to his knees, rubbing them subconsciously.

"u-um, you didn't do a-anything wrong," he says, aware of the deep concentration beverly has. he can usually tell when everyone is upset or has something on their mind. "she's j-just been a l-little self-conscious lately."

"please," beverly whispers, lifting her head to the sky, "i can tell she's been _different_ around me. i must have said something to offend her. i should apologize—"

beverly pulls herself up, dusts off her legs, and is yanked down by bill's shaky hand.

"d-d-don't—"when the girl steadies, he continues, "let them b-b-be. if y-you really did s-something to h-hurt her, s-s-stanley will f-find out. trust him." 

the greenery is exceedingly massive— miles and miles of towering woodland, filtering in streams of sunlight, rocky terrain around every trunk. you find yourself breathing heavily while seated on a boulder that is tucked away behind a ledge, facing the opposite way of the opening that your friends are at. elbows pressed into your knees, you put your face in your hands.

the air is tightening around your throat, and your uneven breaths become wheezes. you fist your hair in frustration and smooth it down seconds after. this turns into a cycle, as you calm your wild nerves. _fuck. are you allowed to think of her like that?_ you inhale deeply, the scent of soil filling your senses.

the twigs crack in the distance, rapidly approaching feet obliterating the silence that has so graciously aided you in your toxic thoughts. you run your hands through your hair, and then fist a handful at the scalp. you smooth it out tenderly. when the footsteps are extremely close, slow down their pace, and stop entirely, you squeeze your eyes shut.

"go the _fuck_ away, bill, i don't need your lect—" you bark, waving him away, but are cut off by long arms wrapping around your neck. your anxiety washes away, but you make no effort to embrace them in turn. your hands become fists, with no fabric of a shirt to grasp. you don't notice the tears racing down your face until your eyes and cheeks burn furiously, and your throat is caught up in sobs. when you peek, the sight of stanley's dusty curls in your peripheral sends waves of numbness and comfort over your skin. your thoughts become hazy once you've lain your head against the bone of stanley's bare shoulder, and you feel a weight on your body lift from you— and transfer to him.

you swear you can hear faint whispering, voice cracked and vulnerable: "it's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

the part that leaves you aching for days in the future, is that _you're not sure he was talking to you._


	2. chapter two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for not posting this sooner! the third is posted on my tumblr (@oceandsrtworld), and should be posted here vv soon!

**July, 1989.**

"she's fucking _insane!"_

how right richie tozier was, staring in utter horror as you march your way straight toward the older boy who has tortured your friends for _far_ too long. one of his greasy hands grips the short hairs on beverly's head, forcing her neck to recline against the bricks of the library— and in turn, your patience.

"someone's gotta stop her," eddie replies, his brows curved inward in concern. he'd be more vocal, if it wasn't for the fear of henry bowers that limited him.

stanley and bill bike their way down the uncrowded street, scanning the nearby area in search of ben, who requested they all meet him at the library for something he called _fascinating._ bill nearly crashes into stanley's bike when he spots you stomping your way up to bowers. he _does,_ however _,_ slam into the curb when you capture a handful of henry's mullet, and slam your free hand up his nose until he cries out.

bill takes a rough tumble, but eddie and richie don't notice. eddie's palms are covering his eyes, and he tells richie to "let him know when it's over". stanley, on the other hand, is whipping his head between yourself and bill as he rapidly decides to minimize collateral damage from the two accidents: bill's bleeding forehead and scrapes, or the death bell slamming into his brain like a literal gong every time he hears a grunt come from bowers as he's reeling from your assault.

sorry, bill; you should have learned how to ride your bike properly. stanley slips off the seat of his transportation, for once not even bothering to stand it up properly before it is left bare, tipping over onto the curb. he's shaking from head to toe, and his footsteps are wobbly. each meter he's closer to bowers, the more he considers bolting and telling his father to never answer your calls. alas, he can't help but feel an obligation; you've saved him from more scraps with the blonde delinquent than he can count, and you always ended up with more bruises than he did— and you would clean his cuts first.

_august 23rd of your 8th grade year, henry bowers takes it into his hands to destroy the lives of each and every child of derry. he's a sophomore at the high school, but that never stops him from picking on you. his first victim is stanley uris, one of your best friends of a year, as he shoves him down, forcing the boy to take a rough tumble._

_eddie's prepubescent screeching exemplifies within every second that henry attacks, and by a couple minutes in, it's entirely indecipherable. henry's goon, patrick, crouches beside stanley's curly head, and retrieves his jewish kippah, examining it as though he actually cared what it was. his slimy grin makes your skin crawl._

_"nice frisbee, flamer," patrick runs his calloused thumb over the fabric, waves the cap in front of stan's face, and tightens his grip as he stands. stan grasps helplessly for the cap, and you push through bowers (as he's holding richie's glasses above his head), and just barely catch the kippah before it soars into a passing bus's cracked window._

_after your fingers are wrapped firmly around the rim, you slam your free hand right up patrick's nose, causing the greasy boy to take a few shaky steps backward. he grips the center of his face, blood slipping from his nostrils, and he growls._

_he cries something pathetic and retreats behind henry, who licks_ _his palm, and runs it down bill's cheek leisurely. eddie cringes at the sight._ _"this summer's gonna be a hurt train for you and your faggot friends."_

 _"as much of a hurt train it'll be for you when you get home to daddy?" you mock with venom, and your stomach swirls in anticipation. you had been entirely aware of what mr. bowers did to his son, and you would have felt sympathetic if he wasn't such a fucking dick. you_ _partially wish you could shove your words down into your shivering guts, and prevent the consequences of your spillage. bill's arms immediately grip around your waist, his bony shoulder turning to hide your torso. his own body trembles, but he doesn't want bowers to see the fear behind his stubborn irises._

_henry was shaken at your words, entirely speechless— out of fear or anger, you weren't sure. probably a mix of both. he seems to not even realize what he's doing, but his arm is raised, and he backhands you right out of bill's shaking arms. you land straight on your ass and your ears ring; henry and his gang take a run for it, and slip into belch's car like the slimy no-good rats they are. your head is dizzy from the impact, and the losers crowd around you. four chaotic voices swarm you, and you wave them all away so they don't worry._

_but you still grip stanley's kippah like your life depends on it._

_the owner of the jewish cap collapses next to you, and he isn't swift to ask for it back or demand it. in fact, it's a thought pushed to the back of his mind when he sees how swollen your cheek gets, and how a trickle of blood is growing in the corner of your mouth. he is entirely aware that patrick is now determined to destroy you, or worse. he is entirely aware of what that means for you, and he knows that you know too. he knows that you know and you still caught the kippah for him regardless, and he feels his heart enlarge, growing pregnant with sadness and appreciation._

_all of these voices slamming into your skull, mostly eddie's high pitched squealing, and all you can hear for a moment is stan's quiet 'thank you'._

_you nod curtly, and gently push his shoulder with your fist, a lopsided grin on your bruised mouth. "ah, it's nothing, kid."_

_you wiggle your fingers at eddie, a sure sign that you want him to help you stand. hesitantly, the lithe boy grabs your forearm and pulls you up. you extend the favor to stanley, and yank him to his feet too._

_"is everyone okay?" you chirp positively, reaching your hands above stan's head, plopping his kippah onto his mass of curls. his tall form retracts a bit, bending slightly so you didn't have to exhaust yourself. once you were content with the cap's position, you stood in a confident position, fingers wrapped around your hips._

_stan removes the kippah and stuffs it into his bag, which he keeps slung around his shoulder. he eyes the losers curiously as they gape at your enthusiasm, but he's the only one that really catches your attention. he mouths a brief, "are you really okay?" and you smile at the ground._

_you mouth back, "we'll talk later"._

_"is that.. are you seriously asking us if we're okay right now, 'cause last i checked..." eddie's words are drowned out._

stanley uris almost squeals when bowers's posture returns, and he's stalking toward your shorter self like he's going to slack his jaw and swallow you whole in one, frankly, sloppy bite. stan rushes in front of you seconds before henry takes an uncalibrated swing, and it knocks stanley straight across the cheek, and you scream. henry takes a handful of your hair and yanks you upward, lifting you off the ground slightly, but he's weak enough that the tips of your shoes graze the grass. the entire time, eddie is screaming, (or speaking _really_ high-pitched, but you couldn't be sure, as you were getting your brains pummeled out), and richie takes a not-so-manly roar and rushes towards the bully. you'd be proud of him if you hadn't noticed his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and his legs like jelly the entire dash over.

he pushes henry to the ground by wrapping his arms around his torso and taking himself down too. "you motherfucking slime-fucker, i'm gonna kill you, or someth—"

 ** _crunch_**. your first thought is henry "greaseball" bowers fucking _ate_ richie tozier, and even after your brain rationalized the events after, you still thought that was an entirely plausible prediction. except, you think his screech would have been a _little_ more muffled, and less annoying because you would have felt sympathy for him, for you know, being _fucking_ inhaled like one of bev's cigarettes. both fortunately and unfortunately, it was just his glasses— and you were relieved briefly until it came to your attention that they were no longer sitting on his freckled face, which meant one thing: the poor kid couldn't see _shit._

you witness beverly dig her knee right into henry's set of jewels, right before you feel a soft but firm hand on your shoulder, and you're pulled up by a flash of red — bill's gushing forehead — and shoved away from the conflict. suddenly, he's bursting towards richie, and he practically throws him out of the way as he snatches up his glasses and bolts towards the row of bikes laid out. beverly is already waiting for him, holding up the bike so he can grasp it and hop on. eddie takes his cue to get on his own, and you almost run towards stanley but bill grabs you and shakes his head.

"oh, _fuck off,_ denbrough _,_ thisisn't a sad movie or whatever!" you break his grip and reach out as far as you can until you catch a handful of stanley's button up. fabric, or a button, tears, but you manage to get him far away from bowers enough to pull him onto the back of his own bike. before he can even adjust himself, you're pedaling rapidly after the others, with stanley's arms wrapped around your torso.

that is _not_ how he imagined the bike moment to go: you know the one, where the girl is wrapped around the guy's chest, leaning her head softly against his shoulder blade, staring off into the sky as they pedal away from the cliche villain? yeah, no. stanley is practically squeezing your organs into your throat, panting in your ear, and not-so-gracefully swerving the bike's balance. you wiggle until he gets the gist that you want to survive the ride, and pedal as fast as your legs can; then when you've gained enough leverage against the others, you stand on the pedals, and stanley's arms slide down to your thighs.

he tries not to stare at the apple in front of his face, so he glances up, and is washed with the image of your face battered and bloodied, but you've got the biggest smile on your lips like you've just climbed mount everest— like saving him was just _that_ exhilarating. but then you try to sit back down, and his arms around your thighs send the bike into a swirl, and you're pretty much sitting on his face until he releases your legs. as if things couldn't get more awkward.

"sorry," stanley mutters, mostly to ease his own embarrassment that's traveled to his cheeks and chest. you both look over at bill and bev, and scowl. they are literally the epitome of the "perfect couple" bike ride, and the two of you feel like barfing.

your reason much different than stan's.

"how are we going to warn ben?" you yell to the entire group.

"kid's a dead man!" richie shouts in reply.

bev jumps in. "we can't just leave him!"

"do _you_ wanna go back?" richie inquires, raising a brow.

her silence is met with you taking a violent u-turn towards the library, and stan wants to cry. you tell the others to get to mike before he shows up unaware of the situation, while you curve around to the back of the building and park the bike by the steps.

"this'll lead us to the basement," stan states while he climbs off.

"i know," you quip.

"what if we get caught? this is a stupid idea," stan says, crossing his arms as you walk up the steps. you shrug.

"so?"

" _so?"_

"and? we get caught. what are they gonna do, take away our library cards?"

turns out they can do a _lot_ more than just take away your library cards, but they let you both slide when they saw the bruises littering you and stan's faces— you were definitely a sight: two fifteen-year-olds caught in the basement of the library, covered in purple and red marks with innocent gleams on your lips as you try to sweet-talk the librarian into _not_ telling your parents that you were discovered unraveled in the dark together. god, the look on the rabbi's face if he had heard that— it leaves you smirking the whole ride away from the building— through the back entrance, of course.

ben says he got lucky that you were there to warn him, 'cause he was going to come out and look for you all a couple minutes after the others departed. that gives you some relief, knowing that it was the right choice to go back. poor kid woulda been bloodied without anyone there to help him.

once you all meet in the alley outside the pharmacy, (with bev's help in distracting mr. keene, again), you mutually agree to patch each other up at the clubhouse, the only safe place for the losers' club anymore. it makes you a bit sad to think that, but nevertheless true. it's a bit worse that you guys are so terrified to leave your bikes near it, that you take a twenty-minute hike to the secret location once you've secured the transportation far away from its sacred grounds.

eddie scowls at the sight of the door in the ground, covered in weeds and unidentified muck, but he chooses not to say anything. everyone is worn out and drained, and he's just happy everyone survived it. his scowl melts into a deep frown as he goes over the events in his head— he was _scared,_ and he hadn't helped a single one of them; he watched as bev was slammed against the library wall, he watched as stanley was decked by bowers, and he _watched_ as each and every one of them defended each other. god, he was such a fucking coward— could he do _anything_ right?

richie senses the weight on the smaller boy's thoughts, so he tentatively puts his hand on his shoulder. _is this too much?_ he doesn't want to make eddie think he _likes_ him, or anything. eddie simply sighs in response, but in his heart, he feels calmer, like maybe they _do_ want him, even if he's a wuss.

ben crouches down to clear the entry to the clubhouse, while richie starts up a conversation about how he totally whipped henry to pieces, and how his sorry ass is gonna come _crawling_ to richie for forgiveness. ben shakes his head with a soft smile, and richie pokes him with his foot.

"hey, you think it's funny, ben? you were stuffing your nose in a book being the _biggest fucking nerd in the whole goddamn world!_ you just watch, bennie; _crawling,_ i tell ya'. crawling," richie says, bending over enough to get an eyeful of ben's snicker.

"yeah, sure, rich," beverly laughs; she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her blouse, and fishes out a lighter. you can't help but stare when she places a cigarette in between her pink lips, and concentrates as she sets the tip aflame— it takes eddie's voice calling your name to draw you from her form.

"hey! take your inhaler!" he chucks it at you.

you catch it just in time and mutter to yourself about how ridiculous he's being. you roll your eyes as you release a breath of air, and place the inhaler between your lips. you push down on the bottle of medicine as you take a deep inhale, letting the contents push down your throat and into your lungs. you have to hold the air for a couple seconds and swallow.

eddie speaks after he takes a puff from his own. "getting scared like that _and_ beverly smoking a cigarette is a death trap for us."

you blink at him, cigarette in your mouth. you inhale, release, and shrug, handing it back to beverly. "you were saying?"

eddie's face contorts to one of a miniature aneurysm, words falling short. he resorts to rolling his eyes and glaring at the dirt.

ben finally heaves open the hatchet and sighs contently. eddie slips in first, with his newly stolen med kit under his arm. ben enters next, and so on.

the clubhouse is rustic, with its oak poles and shelves of miscellaneous items, like puzzles, card games, med supplies, and non-perishable snacks. mike lights a lamp in the corner of the structure while ben pulls the hatch down to close it, and you take a look around, as though you hadn't been done here a hundred times before.

from right where the ladder drops, is a long step that extends from wall to wall, with a plush cushion positioned right next to the entrance. there's a pile of journals and books next to it, with a metal cup of pens on top of the first one. leaned up behind the ladder is a rather large one, a bit bulky and thick with all the pictures of bird species within its pages. (there's an even larger photo album seated on the biggest bookshelf in the clubhouse, shoved in the far back on a ledge where mike and ben hang out). that cushion is where stanley likes to sit, as one might infer. he doesn't like to fold his legs, so the step is nice for him to plant his feet as he sits stiffly on the, frankly, uncomfortable pillow. it explains the sour expression on his face when he spends hours sitting there, and the way he squirms the entire time like there's a nail protruding out of the cushion and into his ass. you wouldn't be that surprised, though, as he would be too unbothered or unmotivated to remove it.

on the far right of the entire clubhouse, not far from the ladder, there is a structure similar to a bay window that ben built for you after hearing you mention you'd always wanted one in your bedroom. he was eager to please everyone with the building (even though you frankly wished he hadn't put so much strain on himself by making it), so it was an easy decision to include it. of course, there really isn't a window, so it's more of a short stage covered in a colorful variety of plush pillows and blankets. he included a built-in shelf for your sketchbooks, journals, novels, and art supplies as well as enough space to include miscellaneous items that you like to decorate with. the space is a bit long, too— not long enough to be a bed, but not short enough to be a couch, either. ben, being the angel he is, included curtains you could pull pack around the section, as you often slept back there, too.

a storage section is tucked away behind a beam separating it with stan's small seat, and that's where the majority of your games and such are located. it has a wooden wall built on its left side, connecting to the open space set out for mike and bill's favorite place, which is more like a stage than your own. three extended steps stretching from the storage room to the far wall on the other side lead up to it, with a flat surface at the top of the third one. that's where you guys keep your larger things, like lawn chairs, toolboxes, and extra wood planks in case ben feels a bit creative. in the corner, though, there's a sandbox that ben enjoys building structures in (much to stan and eddie's dismay, as they both end up being the ones to clean up after him, even when the poor boy is apologizing profusely for making a mess). bill and mike prefer to have deep, intellectual conversations that are a bit too advanced for the likes of richie, and are just a bit boring for the rest of you. you like to have them too, but sometimes they become repetitive, or perhaps you just aren't in the mood to be a part of them, so the two boys retreat to the stage in the back.

eddie and richie constantly argue over the hammock that hangs comfortably in the center of the clubhouse, which is essentially a cheap old sheet tied securely to a couple beams that were set up for the sake of the structure of the hideout. they always end up a tangled mess in the middle, their heads on opposite ends. eddie likes to complain about richie's presence in the hammock majority of the time (if he's not kicking it back with you in your bay window), but he always seems the most at ease when richie is in it with him. he probably doesn't realize it, but he whines he's cold when the taller boy is absent, or hidden somewhere else amongst you.

ben and bev, arguably the easiest to please out of all of the losers, prefer to keep their hangout simple by placing a couple cheap cushions on the floor by the hammock, close enough reach so bev can pass a cigarette between herself and richie. she likes to lean her head against a beam behind her favorite location and drop her elbow onto a box of comic books that you and eddie share. as bev and richie share a smoke, you and eddie toss your inhalers back and forth between yourselves (it took you a while to convince him to do it, but he eventually decided you aren't as germy as the rest of them).

simply put, the clubhouse was home.

today, however, you decide to be a little mischevious, throwing yourself onto the hammock, with richie and eddie's eyes bulging out of their heads. you cock your chin at them, splaying your arms out to graze the dirt floor beneath you, "something wrong, boys?"

"yeah, that's my fucking hammock," richie scolds, crossing his arms while eddie places a small hand on his own hip.

stan doesn't take a seat, slipping his shoes off, while the others migrate to their most common places. "you guys get it every time. what's wrong with her taking a turn?"

you point your thumb behind you at him, nodding in tune. "see? stan the man knows what's up."

stan smirks, and just as he's preparing to plop down onto his beloved cushion, you swing the hammock close enough so you can capture a handful of his striped shirt. he stumbles into your lap, and quickly adjusts himself to save you both the embarrassment. his entirely too long limbs are lanky and take up nearly the entire sheet; you let your toes wiggle underneath his hips.

"i regret this," you mutter, stan's shoeless (thankfully with socks) foot placed next to your head. he apologizes, and swings one over the edge of the hammock, while sliding the other between your arm and your torso.

"is that better?" stan inquires, watching with amusement as eddie and richie groan and throw themselves onto your bay window. with all that space, you'd think they'd spread out, but no,— they're legs are just as tangled as usual.

"yeah," you say, "so, uh. eds, you gonna patch us up or are we gonna bleed all over our favorite shit?"

you hear an awkward crash behind you, and you pray it isn't your collection of display items on your shelf. there's a tumble, and then the patter of feet followed by an "oh, fuck, yeah". the medkit clatters quietly, while eddie digs through it to retrieve some alcohol and cotton swabs.

bill is the first, provided his injuries root from his inability to keep his eyes on the road. he doesn't talk much through it, rather sits there _too_ calm.

"what happened?" you question and stanley shakes the hammock as he reaches over to his pile of books, and captures one in his hand. his foot digs slightly into your side, and you curse under your breath as you try to peer past his curly head.

stanley smirks slightly. "he saw you punch bowers, and crashed."

"too bad it wasn't 'cause he saw the color of your panties..." richie groans, "'cause then i'd have something to take my mind off my aching face."

your stomach curls in both disgust and amusement, rolling your eyes. "they're just blue, today, my friend."

you turn your head just enough to get an eyeful of richie pumping his fist in excitement. you scoff and throw an empty plastic bottle at him, one you found underneath the hammock.

bill hisses from his position on the floor beside eddie and ben. eddie's legs are tucked under his lap, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips in concentration; ben merely glances everywhere but the cloth on bill's forehead, face nearly a shade of green.

"stop moving!" eddie snaps, and bill mutters an apology, wringing his hands in his lap as he waits for eddie to finish up.

"on the positive side," you chirp, poking stanley with your toe, "henry might have a broken nose."

"i ain't fixing it," eddie says, a small smile evident on his lips. his eyes never waver from bill's cut, though.

"nah," you agree, reading the cover of stanley's book, "i wouldn't put my worst enemy through that."

eddie glares at the cut in response. he can't lose concentration, fortunately, but you're aware it was intended for you. "hey!"

richie snorts. "amen."

the sun disappears quickly behind the horizon, but you can barely tell from where you lay. an orange light passes through the doorway, illuminating ben's soft skin, his head in beverly's lap. he's asleep, much like bill, mike, eddie, and richie. beverly slowly drags on a cigarette, a small reflection of light gracing the freckles on her cheek. her eyes are glazed over, like she might fall asleep herself in the next couple minutes. stanley is contently flipping through his novel, the cover a tinge away from an oak brown. his brows are curled in, his entire body engaged in the pages. you tilt your head at him, curious as to what's enraptured him so entirely.

he doesn't notice, thumb tracing circles in the skin of your knee. his hand is warm, like your cheeks, but you don't notice it. seems to be a common occurrence between the two of you; not noticing things that are obvious.

beverly marsh, though, and that eagle eye of hers, notices. a smile appears on her lips, small and knowing. that's just how she is; small, and knowing.

stanley uris's eyes light briefly, and his lips pursue. he's surprised by something that has happened in the book. he seems to disconnect for a moment, glancing up at you. they drop back down and then rise to meet yours again. this time, he's captivated by _you_.

you take this moment as a chance to speak with him. "are you okay?"

"yeah."

"no," you press, leaning forward slightly to keep full attention of his eyes, "are you _okay?_ i haven't had a chance to ask."

stanley licks his lips and taps your knee in thought. finally, he clears his throat. "um, yeah. just had a lot on my mind, is, uh, all."

"your pops?" you inquire, reaching behind yourself to get ahold of a box of graham crackers. you tear open the box and package, capturing a cracker and snapping it in half. you offer one of the halves to stan.

he takes it, and nods in thanks. "i mean, i guess. he's always nagging me, ever since my bar mitzvah speech."

you think back to that dreadful event.

_"what the fuck do we do?" richie asks, legs crossed as he flails his arms. you pitch him a glare from across stanley, whose legs are tucked beneath him, his face in his shaking hands. his shoulders shake too, and he's vulnerable._

_it's like watching a bird caught in a wire._

_he's muttering barely coherent words, along the lines of "i can't do this", and "i'm gonna fuck this whole thing over". you grip his shoulders, and position yourself in front of his kneeling body. you give him a gentle squeeze, and he looks up just enough to meet your firm eyes._

_"you, stanley uris, are the biggest loser i know, and i mean that in the kindest way. you will tackle this shit. if you choose to go the formal route, i support you. you lie to them as much as you want. if you want to tell them to shove it, i support you," you spill out, and before long, you're not sure what you're trying to imply anymore. "i... we are here, no matter the circumstances. if you want to light this whole place up, so be it. i'll be the fire."_

_stanley's eyes are bright, and his lip quivers. he doesn't know what to say or do. but he trusts you, and somehow that's enough._

_stanley stands on that stage, and he recites every hebrew word he is expected to. it seems to drone on forever, and you can tell, even from your seat, that he is just as bored as you and richie are. his hands are trembling with each page flip, and somehow towards the end, you hear the subtle rip of one. stan chokes up but continues._

_by the end, his father is (poorly) trying to hide his fury, and you resist every urge to stand and yell, "he's doing his best! shut up and accept that, you condescending prick!"_

_stan is silent once he finishes. he takes a minute to turn and face the crowd, but his expression is harder than what you expected when he does. "reflecting on the meaning of what i just read, the word_ "leshanot" _comes up a lot, which means, um, 'to change, to transform'. which makes sense, i guess, because today i'm supposed to become a man."_

_his hands curl the microphone wire and uncurl it. a nervous tick. "it's funny, though. everyone, i think, has some memories they're prouder of than others, right? and maybe that's why change is so scary. 'cause the things we wish we could leave behind... the whispers we wish we could silence... the nightmares we most want to wake up from, the memories we wish we could change… the secrets we feel like we have to keep, are the hardest to walk away from."_

_his dark eyes pass over the room, examining the distasteful expressions of each jewish man, woman, and child in the synagogue. when they land on you, he feels a surge of strength, his soul hardening towards the judgmental others. all he sees is you._

_"the good stuff? the pictures in our minds that fade away the fastest? those pieces of you it feels the easiest to lose. maybe i don't wanna forget," his eyes don't waver. he pictures all of the memories he has with you and the losers; the quarry trips, the arcade, the photo booth. you have brought him so much happiness. "maybe, i-i-if that's what today is all about, forget it, right?"_

_his father, the rabbi, surges forward, with a quick, "thank you, stanley"._

_you curse in your head. let him finish!_

_stanley dodges him. "u-uh, today, i'm supposed to become a man, but i don't feel any different. there are things i need to experience, still, i think. i'm still just a kid. i'm not ready for the responsibility, for the harshness of adulthood. i want to stay as i am, with my people. i need to."_

_he stumbles out closer to your pew, avoiding his dad. your nod of encouragement forces him to face him, determination in his bones. he needs this. a final "fuck you"._

"i know i'm a loser, and no matter what, i always fucking will be," you say, quoting him. stanley becomes bashful, shaking his head at you. you nudge him with your toe. "still my favorite moment from that. should be your senior quote. love that for you."

"might need to change the wording a bit," he replies, picking at his fingers.

"nah, a final 'fuck you', you know?"

"wouldn't that be a sight."

"you've always been a looker."

stanley laughs softly. the hammock shudders suddenly as you crawl over to his side, and lean your head against his chest. the subtle beating of his heart lulls you into silence, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. he feels entirely too lanky now, like his limbs might just curl around you like a vine. thankfully though, you tangled your legs with his, and wrap your arms around his torso. his palms finally settle on your back.

"you're my best friend," you mutter against his chest, and he shudders.

"thanks," he chokes out awkwardly.

he can feel bev's eyes burning holes in his cheek, and he can't bring himself to look at her, and she knows it, too. his face burns now, in turn, so he suddenly takes the new cigarette from her, and drags it quickly. he hands it back to her just as fast.

"w—" she begins.

"—shut up," stanley snaps, noticing you've fallen asleep like the others. you're so peaceful.

 _best friend?_ he thinks, _why do his lungs burn like they've caught fire? why does he feel like he doesn't know himself at all anymore?_

_why do you feel more distant than ever?_


	3. chapter three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the third! enjoy!

**July, 1989.**

the rain is constant; pattering, almost as if it expects you to open your window and let it sneak into your bedsheets, like a sneaky, horny, little teenager. except, the only teenager creeping through your window tonight is mischevious richie tozier, head full of grand ideas and schemes.

his hair is sopping when he slams on the glass, and you nearly lose ten years of your life at the scare. most of the terror racing through you isn't because you're shocked by his presence, but rather you didn't really want him to see your arms full of letters and graham crackers. he stares at you a moment, his glasses dripping with water, as a single crumb trickles onto the floor from the corner of your mouth. you consider, for a moment, that he didn't see it, but from the small smirk that appears on his lips, you know you were caught. he's crouched on the roof beside your window, tapping his knee patiently.

you don't rush to make a move, either, as you both have a staredown; richie is uncharacteristically patient, you notice, and it makes you loosen your grip on the items momentarily. but then, richie slips, and you throw them all on the bed and make a break for the window. once you've tossed it open, richie is already steady, his hands splayed out at hip height. he's preparing himself in case he slips again.

"what do you want, trashmouth?" you quip, propping the window open. you glance at the surrounding area behind him, and the sky is a deep grey. the trees are heavy with water, puddles scattered across the ground. what on earth could he need at this time?

"so, i got this cool idea," he says, gripping the sill as he slides through the crack of your window. now, he's got water dripping all over the floor, and you scowl at him as he shakes his head like a dog, flinging droplets across your bedroom. "what if we buy fireworks?"

you don't miss a beat. "what?"

"like, you know, fireworks. for fourth of july? i might know a guy."

"seriously? that'd be so cool!" you say, picturing lighting off rockets into the sky, at the quarry. richie nods in excitement, collapsing on the floor beside your bed, leaning his head against your sheets. one knee is propped up, and his arm slings comfortably on it. the water drips onto his (for once) solid color grey t-shirt and plaided black pajama pants.

"right?" richie agrees, "you can thank me later. i already told 'im to buy them. 'said he'll get back to me soon. what are those?"

you blink at him a moment, and draw your attention to where he is focused. he's eyeing the pile of letters on your bed behind him, and he starts to get grabby as he digs through them.

you jolt forward, swatting at his hands. "they're, uh... letters? to? someone?"

"your pops?"

"what? no. well, actually, most of 'em, yeah."

"he ever respond to the ones you sent last year?" richie asks softly, peering at you when you take a hesitant seat on your bed, near richie's mop of hair.

"nope," you shrug, "but it's worth a try to send some more, ya know?"

"nah. you're trying too hard, babyface. you ever think that maybe it's time to toss the towel in?" richie's hand lands on your knee, but you jerk away from him.

"toss the towel in? what the _fuck_ , richie?" you stand, quickly, and take a few cautious steps away from him.

"no, urgh, listen. i just _hate_ seeing you hurt yourself like this—" he stands, too, stretching his long legs in a couple strides toward you.

"what's so fucking wrong with me writing a letter to my dad?"

"it's stupid! i just think—"

"you're just pissed 'cause yours sits a room away from you, and he talks to you less than mine!" you bite, and you immediately regret it, a sour flavor sitting on your tongue.

 _"fuck you!"_ richie barks, pointing an accusatory finger at you. his voice cracks in the process. "at least my dad bothered to stay! i wasn't so fucking bitchy that he disappeared into the night, not able to deal with having me for a kid!"

you want to snap back, but you're afraid your voice will betray you, so you merely open and close your mouth like a fish. richie's shoulders are heaving, eyes blown wide enough to rival the size of his actual face, with the glasses magnifying them so much. his fists are clenching and unclenching, consistently while you stand in tense silence.

"you're right," you whisper, mostly to yourself, and you cradle your arms against your chest. you lean up against your wall and slide down until your arms hug your knees. richie gapes, mutters out a few incoherent words, and then collapses in front of you, his hands on your arms.

"no, fuck, no, i shouldn't have said that. i didn't _mean_ it. we're both tired, and hungry, and _frustrated_. that was such an asshole thing for me to say," he sputters out, and he pulls your head into the crook of his neck while he coos softly.

"it's okay, i didn't mean what i said, either. i think, i just, i _know_ you were right about the tossing in the towel thing, but i.. i just don't think i'm ready to, you know?" you mumble into his shoulder, and he nods.

"that's okay, it was just a suggestion, babyface. you want to send him a letter? fuck it, let's do it."

"okay."

you spend the next ten minutes sealing the letters up, stamping them, and tossing them into your desk drawer for later. you sit comfortably in your chair, finishing up writing the address on the last one, when richie hums to himself.

"what?" you ask, spinning around to face him. he holds a letter up from his seat on your bed, sitting crisscrossed. his magnified eyes are glued to the words.

"nothing, you just missed one. except, it's not for your pops..."

"what do you mean? i didn't write one for anyone e—..." and it dawns on you. "richie, can i have that letter, please?"

"uh, yeah, nope... 'dear beverly marsh—'"

"richie, god, please!" you fling yourself at him, and he screams, throwing his hand up so you can't reach it while you climb over him. there are a few grunts as you dig various body parts into his flesh, grabbing for the paper, but he's _not_ having it.

"why the hell are you— ouch! —writing a letter to bev?" richie questions, shoving at you a bit to get a good look at the piece of lined paper. "is it a _looove_ letter?"

your silence forces you both to stop your movements, and the pink on your cheeks makes richie blink a few times.

"wait..." he begins, "does that.. do you.. do you _like_ beverly?"

"what does that even mean? _'like'?_ of course i like her, she's one of my best friends! why wouldn't i? she's kind, and _pretty_ , and one of the best people i know."

"yeah, okay, but do you want to stick your hand down her pants?"

"richard tozier!"

"well, you know what i mean."

"unfortunately, yeah, i _do_. but... that's not.. i can't, _you know_ , like her like _that_. she's a _girl,"_ you squirm, scooting over to the headboard of the bed. richie leans up next to you, his shoulder bumping yours.

"so she's a girl. if she were a dude, would you do it?" richie presses.

"do what?"

" _stick your hand—"_

"beep, beep, richie!"

"what i'm saying is, if she were a guy, would you like her?"

"uh, i don't know, i guess," you admit, your hands in your lap. you bite your lip.

"then what's it fucking matter?" he asks, brows curved inward, "just admit it."

you blink at him, kind of understanding where he's coming from. you suppose you never could accept how you felt because it's the 80s, and you're in _derry_ , so same-sex relations remain strictly platonic. you wonder if others have felt, or _feel_ , the same way you do. maybe it's not so bad. maybe you can say it out loud, _to_ someone.

"i have a crush on beverly marsh."

it feels empowering. like you could stand on top of your roof and scream it to the entire world, make everyone know that you, a small-town girl in maine, _likes_ another girl. it feels empowering, but also incriminating— like you have something to hide, like you should be guilty for feeling this way.

guilty of what? loving another human being?

"well, shockingly, that's _not_ the most lesbian thing you've ever said to me," richie quips.

"beep, beep, richie."

"anyway," he clicks his tongue, desperate to change the subject, "so the fireworks. what's your game plan?"

"right. well, we'll probably have to ask bill to tell eddie's mom that they're studying. you know how she gets when me or bev call— rant about how he can't hang with us 'cause we'll force him into an orgy 'n shit," you laugh dryly.

"wouldn't mind an orgy with _her,"_ richie whistles lowly.

"her, and who else? stan's mom? she's too high-strung for that."

"with my charms? pft, _please,"_ he replies, signaling down his body.

you roll your eyes. "oh, for sure, she'll be on her knees in no time."

"nah, she'd break a hip."

you laugh. "okay, focus— so you got the fireworks, bill's got eddie's mom—" ( _"he'd better share!")_ and everyone else should be able to make it. bev and ben can sneak out, and mike is pretty much free to go wherever. i can convince stan's mom that we're spending the night at bill's, with supervision. she likes me, but i can't be sure she won't think i'm trying to fuck the jew out of him."

"he wouldn't mind."

"seriously, richie, learn when to shut the fuck up," you scold, and he laughs, " _anyways_ — do ya think mike could scrounge up a picnic again, or should i go over to bill's to make one? i think mike would want to do it..."

"yeah," richie yawns, and he leans on your shoulder. you sigh softly, sweep his hair away from his face, and slip his glasses off, onto the bedstand. "should prolly head home."

"no, it's pouring out. you've stayed here before," you tell him, pushing him off of you so you can turn the light out. by the time you've turned yourself around, he's hogging all of the blankets and you frown. rolling your eyes, you mutter something along the lines of "didn't get to eat my graham crackers", and you stash them under your desk.

crawling beside richie, you kick him with your leg as a sign to scoot his ass over, or _else_. he doesn't listen at first, but another heel in his side, and he's doing as he's told. (richie won't admit it, but he likes being the little spoon); you wrap your arms around his torso and poke his back with your nose as you prepare yourself for sleep.

after a few minutes, richie turns over slightly, glancing at your face. when he is convinced you've fallen asleep, he sighs softly and bites his lip— there are so many things he wishes he could tell you. _so many secrets._ after hearing you admit you like bev, he feels safer; like someone can relate to him, like he's not alone. it would be the first time he ever admitted it, even to himself.

richie doesn't know you're even listening, but having you _next to him_ makes it easier to say out loud. "okay, so uh, listen... i think.. i think i'm like you, okay? i think i like..."

he's quiet for a moment, but now you're focused; you hadn't been asleep yet, but this is odd of him. you sigh, and snuggle up against him. "eddie. it's okay."

his breath hitches, and he chokes out a "yeah". you think he's fallen asleep after, but you hear small sniffling, and you can't help but tear up too. your grip on his chest tightens, a sign that you hear him and understand. he flips his body around, and suddenly, rather _aggressively_ , pulls you against him, his face in the crook of your neck. his small tears melt into sobs, and yours soon follow suit.

"it's okay, it's _okay_ ," you coo, combing your fingers through his hair. he sounds so hurt, so painfully _heartbroken_. but, so do you.

"is there something _wrong_ with me?" richie cries, the droplets creating a pool in the skin of your neck, "with _us_?"

" _i don't know,_ " you reply, your shoulders shaking, "oh, _god_ , i don't _know_."

how badly you wish you did; if not to ease your own pain, but most especially his. richie tozier did not deserve to be crying in your arms in the dark, because he fell in love with his best friend. he deserved a _much better love story than that._

—

over cereal the next morning, you and richie don't talk much. you're both reeling from the many emotions that were expressed last night, and you're afraid if one of you speaks, it will spoil everything.

your stepfather and your mother are speaking in the other room, and you hear the pattering of footsteps — loud ones, at that, a sure one it's your stepfather — as he walks into the kitchen to pour himself a mug of coffee. he looks as dead as the two of you.

"hey, kiddo, i need you to take the trash out when you're done," he says, glancing at you. it takes him a moment to register that richie is sitting across from you. he gets an eyeful of him, and shrugs nonchalantly, "hey, rich."

"yo," richie replies, stuffing another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. the two stare at each other briefly, before your stepfather becomes bored and pads off into the other room to inform your mother of richie's presence, as she wasn't aware. you hear her nearly shriek, worried that the house isn't clean enough for guests.

"it's fine, mom, it's _just_ richie," you raise your voice so she can hear you, "he _literally_ doesn't care. like, at all."

she says something back, but you don't catch it, as you stand from the table and put your bowl in the sink. richie follows suit.

"so, um... i'll call bill, you handle the, _you know,_ and then i can head over to stan's to let him know the plan. you got everyone else?" you quip, and richie smirks at you.

"you need to take the trash out, _kiddo_. but, yeah, i got everyone else."

"okaay," you reply, groaning.

richie leaves a few minutes after, through your window, for _dramatic_ effect. you tell your parents he left through the second living room, a sliding door to the backyard in it. they accept it.

calling bill is easy; he always answers, (as he is always home and his parents don't care much for the phone), and rather quickly, too. it's easy to convince him, as well, as he's kind of excitable. he agrees to free eddie.

you call stanley, next. his mother picks up, and you curse to yourself. she's a hard nut to crack.

"hi, mrs. uris!" you tell her it's you, and you swear her tone becomes a bit sharper, but she stays polite. as is the way of jews.

"hello there, sweetheart."

"is stanley home?"

"yes, he is," she replies, you smile. he's always home, too, if he's not birdwatching.

"... could i speak to him?"

"oh! yes," she says, and she barks his name quietly, a sign that he was probably walking past her when you asked.

you tap your foot as there is brief movement on the other end, and stanley breathes into the phone just a millisecond before he speaks.

"hello," he says softly.

"hi, stanny! you free today? great!" you chirp cheerily, smiling against the telephone.

"o-oh, uh, yeah—"

"i thought we already established that."

"oh. um, yeah, i guess.. we have," he sounds dejected.

"kay. i'm coming over."

"what? wait, okay—"

you hang up, and hop slightly as you turn yourself around to grab your things. once you've gotten them, you head out to the place stanley calls home, a small house right outside of the synagogue.

you knock on the screen door at the back of the house and bounce on your heels as you await stanley. the locks on the door rattle briefly, and he's there, pushing open the door to let you in. you thank him and slip off your shoes in the entrance.

"so, you wanna hear about what we're doing tonight?" you say happily, poking his shoulder with a giant grin on your lips.

he swallows. "okay..."

you capture a handful of his collar, and pull him closer to you; he turns beet red. "we're gonna light off fireworks! but i gotta tell your mom we're staying at bill's."

" _what?_ are you guys insane? that's dangerous!" stanley whisper shouts. he looks at you in complete and utter bewilderment.

"i know!" you cheer, "it'll be a _blast!"_

"no, i'm not doing that!"

" _pleaaaase?"_ you beg, giving him puppy eyes, "it won't be fun without you."

he rolls his own. "no! that's ridiculous!" stanley crosses his arms, glances at your sweet face, and huffs dramatically. "ugh! fine! only because i don't want any of you doing something stupid. mostly you, because you're accident-prone."

"you know me too well, uris," you whisper sappily, and give him a strong hug. he refrains from doing it back for a second but sighs and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

"stanley!" mrs. uris calls out sharply, and she shakes her head stiffly at him. you immediately take a few cautious steps away from him. "what on earth are you doing?"

"i, uh, was just hugging her because..." he trails off slowly.

"my grandma died," you spit out.

"oh! goodness, when?" mrs. uris asks, putting down her basket of laundry.

"um—" you think of a random time, and say, "last night."

unfortunately, stanley says "this morning" simultaneously.

you glance at each other.

"last night," stanley says, "i forgot, and thought it was this morning."

"oh," mrs. uris mutters, "goodness, child, you almost had me thinking you just hug that girl for the sake of it."

"yeah, nope, i would never," he agrees, "she has like, um, ...cooties."

when the high-strung woman finally skitters away, you and stan release a breath.

you're the first to speak. "cooties, stanley? _really?_ that was your genius idea?"

he throws his hands up in defense. "i'm sorry! it was the only thing i could think of. i couldn't say AIDS!"

"i think AIDS would have been more redeemable."

"hardly!" he exasperates, "'cause then she'd think you're a homosexual man with a sex addiction under that skirt and scrunchie!"

you break out into a fit of laughs and shove stanley's shoulder. he shoves you back, and then you're both laughing.

"what? so how am i supposed to convince her to let you come with me to bill's when she thinks my grandma just died and i have cooties?" you inquire as you both step into the main section of the house and prepare to enter the living room.

"with slow coaxing and distance."

—

somehow, all of the losers are able to come— with slow coaxing and distance.

a symphony of crickets echoes down the dirt path, matched with the small pattering of eight pairs of feet. the bugs' song drowns out eddie and richie's bickering at the front of the group, but soon, stanley's soft voice joins in. the sun has already dipped low past the horizon, coating the sky in a hazy blue-grey, but the large trees block out the color significantly. the greenery tickles at your ankles, sly weeds brushing up against you.

a few feet in front of you, stan's pearly whites sneakers kick up rocks, a thin powdery layer of dust residue sliding around the heels, and coating the sides. his laces are neatly tied, and he has taken extra care to tuck the ends away to avoid them from collecting dirt; a signature, and neurotic, move on his part. his socks are a snowy white, and nearly match the pale tone of his calf. almost as if he might turn suddenly and catch your prying eyes, you scrape them to the heavens, admiring the stars that begin to trickle into the blanket above you. you are startled as eddie shrieks, and you manage to catch a glimpse of richie waving a handful of mud from the mucky dissolve at the end of the path, which must have been created during the rainfall yesterday.

"that's literally so _disgusting!_ no! _richie_ , if you fling that at me, i swear to fuck—!" eddie's voice heightens to a womanly pitch, as he withers back from richie's sopping palm. in turn, he snickers devilishly as he circles around eddie like a vulture, with stanley's disapproving expression prominent on his boyish face.

"do you realize how sick i can get from that, _huh?_ flesh-eating bacteria can get into my fucking cornea if a rock cuts my eye!" eddie nearly wails, throwing his hands up to protect his face. richie makes inhumane sounds following eddie's spring for the opening up ahead.

bill shakes his head contently, mirrored nearly identically by beverly and mike. you glance around at the meadow, and your heart skips a beat when you catch sight of a small glow up ahead, hovering just above a patch of flowers.

you squeal and push past the others to get a closer look at the fireflies now littering the meadow. you like to catch them, but not with malice— you capture them, and let them crawl on your hands until they decide to fly again. you giggle, spinning around, arms wide open, admiring the plethora of them.

they're everywhere, and you're in your own personal utopia. richie appears next to you, and he allows a firefly to land on his finger. "hey, watch this."

you eagerly grin as he moves his other hand over the bug, and then— he crushes it, wiping the glow across his skin. you gape at him, and then scowl. "richie, you're such a dick! it was innocent!"

"yeah, but my skin glows!" he replies, showing his hand to the others. none of them are amused, as they peer at your now heartbroken expression.

"that was harsh, rich," bill says, shaking his head in disappointment.

"i thought it was cool," richie mumbles, adjusting his glasses.

you roll your eyes at his response and continue to gaze off into the dark at the glowing bugs. you manage to capture one and cup your hands as you march over to stanley.

"hey, hey, check this out," you tell him, and he cranes his neck to watch as you open your hands, and show him the lightning bug. he slowly reaches out, and it crawls onto his forefinger. "isn't he so cute?!"

"yeah, definitely," stan agrees. the glow from the bug as he raises it up to face reflects off his nose, illuminating some stray freckles on the bridge. his eyes are lit up to match, and they never leave the insect, even when it ultimately makes its flight elsewhere.

"hey, lovebirds! come help me collect some sticks! or should i wait 'til y'all are done gushing over a bug?" richie barks, raising his arms, which are full of twigs, for what you assume is a fire.

"we're not—" stanley begins, but richie is already turned away and focused on something else.

you toss stan a bashful grin. "c'mon, birdboy. 'm sure mike brought marshmallows 'n stuff for s'mores."

"wait—" stanley says suddenly, voice risen uncharacteristically as he grips your arm. when he's positive he has your full attention, he drops contact with you, and stares at the grass below. "u-um, i got you something. i-it's not like anything big, you know, just like.. i saw it, and thought of you, or, er, us."

you blink at him. "you didn't have to—"

"— _no!_ uh, i mean, no. i wanted to," stanley replies, fishing into the pocket of his khaki capris. there, he turns over two bracelets— they're woven, some sections tan and others colorful. there are two short brown strings at the latch on both of them.

"oh, my god, stan!" you say quietly, sticking your wrist out happily. you're grinning, and you can't explain the butterflies in the pit of your stomach or the heat rising to your cheeks. "they're so cute!"

"heh, thanks," he says, stepping forward to slip the bracelet over your wrist. it feels oddly intimate. "i, uh, it's not _much_ , but.."

"no, no, i _love_ it," you chirp, keeping a hold of his hand while you admire the charm. your grin reaches your eyes as they rise to meet his. the feelings expressed by simply the contact of your gazes sends rushes of excitement into your bloodstream. "i'll never take it off. _not once._ "

then stanley suddenly stares into the sky, his lower lip tucked under his teeth. his brows are now curved in concentration. "d-don't look at me like that."

"like _what?"_

"like this is the best present you've ever gotten. l-like this is the happiest you've ever been."

"it is," you say softly, "this bracelet means the world to me. i've never felt so cared about, not ever."

you take the second bracelet from his hand that remains stretched out, like he's offering the jewelry. you slip it onto his wrist, and use it to pull him into a warm embrace, your arms wrapped around his neck. your right hand rests on the flesh of it, a few curls brushing against your skin.

"thank you, stanley."

your entire being buzzes incessantly as he accepts your gratitude, and you pull away. the air hitting your chest leaves you chilly, the empty kind; disconnecting with him now feels like abandoning the other half of your body, and leaving it frozen in place. you feel as though without him you will always be cold. the empty kind.

richie makes short work of the fire, relaying a grand story about his survival in the woods at six years old, and his incomparable courage that winter. the flames are low and small, but no one dares tell him to stoke them or toss in some leaves for an extra shove, as he seems so content with the low burn as it is. you all subtly cuddle up next to each other, but bill is the most obvious, physically— he scowls and wraps his arms around himself while eddie is vocally unhappy.

beverly leans into ben, subconsciously, and the sweet boy glows brighter than the fire, his skin illuminating a deep red, like an apple. beverly's scarlet hair, in turn, rivals the fire as it roars. her hair, and the way it is ruffled and sharp with each sliced strand, resembles the flames as they lick up towards the sky. the reflection of the campfire makes it burn ever the more vibrant, and it melts onto the skin of her freckled shoulders and nose.

you're cut from your stupor when richie nudges you, and he whispers, "you're staring", as though you weren't already aware. the others don't catch on, fortunately, as they all listen intently to the process of shelving meat, as expressed by mike. you find it _riveting_ , really — as riveting as the tale of processed and packaged animal flesh can be. a silence ensues once richie makes a horrible joke about vegans, and then he clears his throat awkwardly.

"so, fireworks? who dares me to blow one up eddie's ass? maybe it'll get the stick outa there," he chirps, and eddie shrieks and chucks a stick at him.

richie smirks at him and tells him to follow him so they can fetch the fireworks and eddie reluctantly agrees. they scatter off, and you watch contently as they bump shoulders. your brows draw in, a bit depressed by the two of them— how badly you wished they knew. how badly you needed them to know they were everything you dreamed to be.

while you all wait for eddie and richie, ben and beverly disappear behind the trees to go explore this stream ben had found. he told her he felt very poetic being near it, which he had hoped would signal something to her, but she hadn't noticed. in the meantime, you and stanley stay by the fire and discuss his journal, as he gushes about a ruby-throated hummingbird, and shows you a light sketch of one — he shaded the throat, and it makes you smile. he's certainly improved on his work, and you feel a rush of pride break through the dam of your chest.

"stanley, you've really been practicing," you tell him, running your index finger over the graphite lining the yellow paper, "i can tell it's a bird this time! and it's not having a heart attack!"

he nods in approval, and he takes a second to realize you were referring to the first time you met when you told him his art looked like it was having a health scare. his dull eyes blink at you momentarily, like he's trying to figure you out or understand you— and it dawns on you that he's not thinking about the drawing anymore— but rather, he's trying to understand you as a _whole—_ as though you are some sort of puzzle he can't quite put his finger on.

stan's attention retreats back to the journal, flipping occasionally to the next page and reading the notes he's taken on each bird. when your eyes drag down his face, you feel a twinge in your stomach— there's simply something about stanley uris that you can't quite put your finger on, either, and you rather like that about him; it gives you space to unravel and discover each day. you always feel like you're learning something new and jarring about him, and you like to think that gives him depth.

however, his face holds something harsh and cold— something that remains constant, despite the circumstances of his mystery— and it's the sadness. it's the sadness and the fatigue, written like scars across every inch of flesh, a consistent tattoo of sorrow. he's imprinted with it, as though it's simply the base coat on the canvas of his life— and it hurts you, seeing him sad. and it's worse knowing that you don't think you've seen stanley uris any other way.

and you consider, briefly, just for a striking moment— that maybe he's only sad when he's looking at you.

stan recounts a conversation he had with a girl in your shared english class, persephone— known universally as percy — an introverted blonde girl, who has a curious knack for all things odd and quirky. she likes to wear lacy, flowy dresses, and unusual jewelry. she has a rather soft voice, like listening to a cloud speak— and she too enjoys birds. he says it's been a while since he's had a decent talk with someone about the animals, and that he's happy she appears genuinely interested and engaged in the topic. you aren't surprised, by this, though; you half expect percy to be some sort of angelic tree nymph.

you open your mouth to reply to his story, a bitter tang of jealousy on your tongue you don't recognize, but richie tozier beats you to it. almost to your relief.

"what's up, whores?! you ready to blow this place up?" he calls out, raising some fireworks, with exhausted eddie dragging behind him. he looks like he wants to swallow gunpowder and then a match.

you find yourself beside him, hands on his shoulders. he's too tired to even remove them. "eds, what the hell happened to you?"

his eyes are hazy. "richie thought it would be smart to go through the shit path, and now i've probably got seven diseases, at least."

richie smirks. "didn't want to go the usual way. woulda got caught by the po-po."

"you're a handful, tozier," you say.

"you love it," he replies, blowing you a kiss.

"you got me."

the rest of the night is soft chaos; richie lights off the fireworks, and they burst in bright and vibrant colors, lighting up the night. the air is crisp and free, and the grass between your toes is heavenly. you become drunk on your youth, an alcoholic in your own right. you wonder, briefly, if this is the peak— if this is the highest point of your life, if this is what you're meant for. if you're the peter pan of your successful friends, if they will all grow to be everlasting lovers and soulmates.

if this is where your journey with them ends.

and, by god, watching the way beverly looks when she's in her element, dancing barefoot with the rest of you— the way they all gaze at her like she's some sort of angel, some sort of saving grace. the way you gaze at her. how your chest aches. how it _burns,_ to be amongst her beauty, to be jealous and insecure and in love all at once. your feet buzz with the shake of the earth, the fire in the sky. your skin sears, like ashes racing to compete. at this moment, you swear you feel your entire being burning alive.

and it is _exhilarating_.

and as you watch them, hooting and screaming and letting their voices be heard, you feel infinite. like the world is putty in your hands, like they are the most exhilarating people you'll ever know and you'll spend the rest of your life just _settling_. and your heart calms, because suddenly everything is simple; you want to hang out with these people until the end of time.

and stanley, the way his curls glow under the fireworks— the way his skin shimmers in possibility. the sadness so present in his face has faded, like he's suddenly hazy and thoughtless. his movements, they're slow and unsure, like he's seconds away from making a fool of himself. but he's beautiful— like some sort of saint— stanley is the human form of apollo, he's the sun himself. apollo— you crave that for him. and his soil eyes stray from the others and meet your excitable ones; his expression is not blank, but rather glowing. you can't define a single emotion on it, but rather a feeling. one that doesn't have a word. one that just _is_.

and he's looking at you like you're a goddess— you, with a crown of flowers sewn into your chaotic head of hair, you, with your flowy skirt and bare feet— and you know no one has ever looked at you like that. it sparks something in you, something luminescent and empowering. and god, he glows. that boy glows.

and it hits you both at the exact same time, like a comet striking the earth— an epiphany in the form of a human.

_i want to hang out with this person until the end of time._

and _maybe_ , you consider, just for a moment, almost a guilty thought—

_he wants to hang out with you, too._

is that so bad to wish for?

a person to spend the rest of your youth with?

a person to spend the rest of your life with?

a person to call your own?

and by _god_ , you want it to be him.

_let your cries shake the earth, if it isn't._


End file.
